


The Icarus Legion

by Where-Souls-Feast (My_Soul_and_Perfume)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Graphic depictions of war and death, Narrative, Short Story, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/Where-Souls-Feast
Summary: Young men who are drafted for war meet the tale of "Icarus."





	The Icarus Legion

**Author's Note:**

> Critiques are always welcome!

It is not a question of consequence, courage, or danger. There is no question at all, really; whether their decision to escape the clutches of war is out of fear and determination, or protocol and desperate times. But one thing is true: demons linger like smoke in their lungs—like embers refusing to be put out—and the only way to smother them is to look to the bloodless future. To reach with needy hands in the direction of the horizon, away from the damage and the destruction. It is where the sun lures weary soldiers toward its hypnotizing beauty. It is where harmony and relief burns from the inside out.  
       Feeling the premonition of death, they sling their bags over their shoulders with great enthusiasm and move like the wind, swiftly dodging grenades peppering the ground. Faster and faster as they near the horizon, the stronger this feeling becomes. It feels more familiar than war; they go to it with eagerness as they drip blood; as they pray for the agony to end.  
       The young men they left behind did not express in their wills what should happen to them if they die. They are abandoned, left to face weathering and decay in a condemning pose: supine, glazed from head to toe in blood, facing the spirits of their ancestors.  Their medals are stripped, badges snatched. Dog tags remain. It is a memento for the others, those who watch the war from their homes. An officer will deliver them to their families so they will know what they lost to the war. A mother will cry, a father will drink, a sister and brother will sulk in silence. At least they will have a keepsake to own after the funeral. They will keep good memories of the men who died bravely.  
       Those who are still alive are different. They do not want to remember this life when they reach the horizon, or their sins and mistakes. Into the fire, they run. Away from the past, they flee.  
       Little do they know, salvation does not come without a price.    
       Pieces of themselves get swallowed by the horizon's fire as they near. When their hearts are charred, ripe and black, they tear themselves apart, that once-ghosting premonition of death now showing itself in the persona of Fate. Fate has decided that death will be their salvation. It was decided the day they shot their first bullet.  
       Could it be the fire that is spreading this premonition in these young men who ache like they are ninety years old? Is it the government who taught them to interrogate human beings instead of negotiating harmony? Because of them, these young soldiers are fighting an uncontrollable battle to win their freedom. They did not ask to leave their families behind. They did not ask for the false company of apathetic men, or the unkind words that shadow them. They did not ask to be put in the war, fighting against something they know nothing about. They do not want to lose sight of freedom. They want to know what it _means_.  
       Thus far, they have been taught that war is an excuse to kill for the sake of others: cities, states, entire countries. But for every man and woman and child they have tried to save, one thousand more ceases to exist at their bloody hands. Is this what it means to live? They want nothing part of it—they pray for the agony to end.  
       No one reaches the horizon. It has swallowed the land whole. Not a body in the trees, or a gunshot in the distance; only pure desolation, and magnificent flame kissing the morning star.

**Author's Note:**

> Critiques are always welcome!


End file.
